


phantom darkness

by dashwood



Series: mayhem and mystery [3]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Claustrophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Literary References, M/M, Martín's life is a farce, Mention of Child Abuse, Pining, Swearing, buzzfeed unsolved au, things that go bump in the night - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:01:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27844159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: "Cariño,” Tatiana trilled, “how is your search for a new roommate going?"Andrés looked up, his expression cold and unamused. He’d been combing through their bags in search of the spirit box. He wouldn't find it. Martín had 'accidentally' kicked it beneath the backseat of his car. He hadn’t had the patience to deal with its hellish screeching today.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: mayhem and mystery [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1851757
Comments: 26
Kudos: 42





	phantom darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Thumbnail & Video editing by [boom_slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/works)
> 
> **The wistful whispers of Morales Meadow Sanatorium**
> 
> There’s a reason the image of the mad scientist has persisted for centuries. Sometimes there’s a grain of truth in even the most gruesome of tales. The boys travel to Morales Meadow Sanatorium, an asylum for the mentally insane near the French border. The asylum has stood abandoned for the past 80 years. Will the boys encounter any lingering spirits in its vacant halls?
> 
> Don’t forget to like and subscribe! And follow us on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sorrydearie) | [tumblr](http://www.sorrydearie.tumblr.com/) for more spooky content! 
> 
> 14,623,006 views | Dec 06, 2019   
> 39K Likes | 2.7K Dislikes | Share | Save 

“I’m sorry, Martín."

“Don’t.”

“I don’t know what’s up with him–”

"I said _don't_."

Tatiana’s lips pinched into a thin line, and for a split-second Martín felt bad about snapping at her. It wasn’t her fault Andrés was an ass. A stuck-up, egocentric, air-headed—

"He should have asked you."

"Maybe so," Martín snarled, “but he didn’t."

"It didn’t cross his mind," Tatiana said, and impossibly, Martín's mood soured even more. Because Tatiana hadn't said _maybe_ it didn't cross his mind. She'd said it like it was a fact. Like she knew exactly what Andrés was thinking, like she understood him better than Martín did.

In that moment Martín hated her. 

“He just needs a gentle nudge in the right direction.” Tatiana turned away. "Here, let me...”

"What? No! Don't you fucking dare–"

" _Cariño_ ,” Tatiana _trilled_ , “how is your search for a new roommate going?"

Andrés looked up, his expression cold and unamused. He’d been combing through their bags in search of the spirit box. He wouldn't find it. Martín had 'accidentally' kicked it beneath the backseat of his car. He hadn’t had the patience to deal with its hellish screeching today.

“Don’t worry. I’ll have found someone by the time you abandon me for that vile whor–"

“Andrés," Tatiana said, sounding as if she were talking to a toddler. “Why don’t you ask one of our friends, hmm? Can’t you think of anyone who’s looking for a bigger place?”

Martín wanted to bang his head against the wall. This whole situation was a fucking farce. Any moment now a clown would show up and shove a pie in his face. 

Andrés followed Tatiana's gaze. To Martín. 

“Martín," he said, sounding almost surprised. As if he had just noticed him standing there. As if he was seeing him for the first time, with new eyes.

Martín held his breath.

“Didn’t you say that Mirko was looking for a new place?”

Fucking unbelievable.

Next to him, Tatiana let out a high-pitched shriek that sounded like an unflattering cross between a snort and a guffaw before excusing herself. Martín suspected that she was going to call Silene, starting with the words _you won't believe what Andrés has done this time_.

Martín gritted his teeth. 

“Yeah,” he said, bitterly. “He is. Our place has become pretty much uninhabitable ever since one of the pipes broke and flooded the living room. Which is why Mirko is looking for a new place. As am I, incidentally.”

"I see." Andrés tapped his finger against his lips, lost in thought. "Tell him to give me a call then."

"Sure," Martín lied. "I'll do that."

As soon as Andrés turned away, Martín let the fake smile slip off his face. The bastard didn't even seem to realize that Martín was in a rotten mood. That he felt like punching something. Or someone. 

“Such an obeisant place.”

Andrés held up a hand. Martín thought he looked ridiculous, as if he was checking for rain – indoors. Fucking stupid. 

“You can feel a thrumming, an electric current running through the air. The atmosphere feels strained, doesn’t it? Hostile, even.”

In truth, Martín thought that the strained atmosphere had less to do with any vengeful spirits and more with the daggers he was glaring at Andrés' back.

“People have reported hearing strange whispers in these halls,” Andrés went on, oblivious to Martín's ire. "Like someone was calling out to them, luring them deeper into the asylum’s belly.”

Martín scoffed. 

“Probably just the wind.”

“How little you must think of men, Martín, to believe them unable to distinguish between the wind and voices calling out to them from the great beyond.” 

He turned away and wandered down the hallway. Martín followed him.

“Dr. Morales – the chief physician – was as much a doctor as I am a court jester,” Andrés explained. “Those who were fortunate enough to survive his experiments died of starvation. There was no getting out, no escape, no justice. Doesn’t it remind you of Shelley?”

“I’m guessing you aren’t talking about Frankenstein.”

But Andrés wasn't listening.

“ _I met Murder on the way / He had a mask like Castlereagh / Very smooth he looked, yet grim; / Seven blood-hounds followed him._ ” Andrés paused; even the asylum seemed to hold its breath. " _One by one, and two by two, / He tossed them human hearts to chew_.”

“Well.” Martín blinked at him. “That’s fucking depressing.”

Andrés had the gall to throw him a chastising look – as if _Martín_ were the one running around an abandoned insane asylum spewing poetry like a pretentious fuck. 

Martín huffed. Cleared his throat. And tried to screw together a semblance of amicability. A truce, of sorts.

“So,” he said, “this place is haunted?”

“You don’t have to sound so doubtful,” Andrés tutted, and turned away to examine a disgusting smear on the wall. "I wish we had gone back for the spirit box. I would have loved to talk to the spirits in this place.”

“They must be awful conversationalist if they need a broken radio to talk to you.”

Andrés shot him a reproachful glare.

“Don’t be disrespectful.”

Martín rolled his eyes, but didn’t say any more as he followed Andrés down the corridor. Honestly, he was just glad that they had moved on. That Andrés had seemingly dismissed the weird stain as ‘yucky, but most likely not of paranormal origin'.

They walked past an elevator – at least Martín did. Andrés, he realized, had stopped right in front of it, staring into its empty mouth. 

Martín craned his neck, expecting to find something interesting. Well, as interesting as it'd get in an abandoned insane asylum. An old wheelchair or a single shoe left behind by a homeless person or vandal. 

There was nothing. 

Whatever had fascinated Andrés so, Martín didn’t see it.

“What...?”

Andrés ignored him. He merely took a step towards the elevator, as though he was being pulled by an invisible string. 

Martín didn't like this. 

For one, the whole thing looked like a pile of trash. Its buttons were flashing in a silent distress signal, the service panel was covered in rust, and cobwebs lined the metal walls. There was a hole in the ceiling, too. Martín could just about make out the chafed planks protruding from the elevator shaft, laid bare like bones. 

He noticed the loose screw before Andrés did. Images flashed before his inner eye, each more terrifying than the last, each ending with Andrés tumbling, falling, _dying_.

Martín acted on instinct. 

His feet rushed him forward, and his arms reached out on their own accord to wrap around Andrés, and together, they stumbled into the gaping mouth of the elevator. Andrés gave a startled grunt as Martín crashed into him, but it was quickly drowned out by the deafening screech of the elevator as it shot down into the darkness. 

It felt like jolting awake after a dream of flying, of falling. 

It was fucking terrifying. 

The elevator plunged down – one meter, two meters – before coming to an abrupt halt. Martín winced when his hand got crushed between the wall and Andrés' head, the bones cracking.

He didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was that he had managed to protect Andrés. That he had managed to protect the most valuable thing in his life.

Sometime during their descent, the elevator doors had fallen shut. Everything was black; there was no light, no hope. A tomb made of mold and metal walls. 

Martín held his breath. He was afraid that the smallest movement would upset the balance and send them crashing down. That it would _kill_ them. 

Beneath him, Andrés shifted. Martín couldn’t see what he was doing, but he heard the rustling of clothes before he felt Andrés' fingers brushing over his temples, his cheeks, his jaw, checking for injuries.

Martín’s eyes fluttered close. 

They were okay, he realized. They were _alive_.

He could feel the tension seeping from his body. It was replaced by relief, overwhelming and all-consuming – so much so that it made him careless. It made him weak. He leaned into Andrés' touch, seeking comfort in the warmth of his hand, in the familiarity of his scent. 

They were so close – Martín could taste Andrés' breath on his lips, as if it were his own. He wanted to close the distance between them. He wanted to kiss Andrés. 

He didn’t.

Reluctantly, Martín pulled away, slumping back against the wall. The elevator gave a tortured groan, but didn’t move.

His heart was pounding, almost painfully, in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, and allowed himself a quick moment to take inventory of the situation: they were trapped inside a rusty old elevator, a metal cage that would plunge them to their deaths at the first gust of wind.

Great.

Fucking wonderful.

“Fuck,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. He stretched out his legs – as much as he could, anyway. The space was cramped, too small for two grown men, and Martín's foot bumped into Andrés' hip. He didn’t pull away. 

From outside, an alarmed cry wrangled itself through the walls. 

“Andrés? Martín?" Tatiana’s voice was fraught with worry. "Are you okay? What happened?"

Martín bit out a laugh, a sharp little thing. 

“Ohhh, we decided to have a fucking tea party. Would you like to come down and join us? What the fuck does it look like?! The fucking elevator crashed.”

“Tatiana,” Andrés said, and Martín was surprised at how calm he sounded when they were literally one rash movement away from tumbling to their deaths, “there’s a wrench and some rope in the emergency kit. That should do it.”

“Got it! Will you be okay?”

“Of course.”

Tatiana’s footsteps might as well have been that of a giant, the way they echoed inside the elevator, loud and final. Martín tried hard not to think about the fact that the only person who knew where they were was leaving them behind. If something happened to Tatiana, they would be trapped. 

Forever. 

Martín dug his hands into fists, harder and harder, until his nails bit into the inside of his palms. He shouldn’t think like that. He needed- needed to focus on something else. The silver lining:

_Andrés_. 

Andrés was alright. That was all that mattered. As long as Andrés was alive and breathing, as long as he was here, with him, Martín could ignore the pounding of his heart, the blood rushing into his ears.

He could ignore, too, the metal digging into his back and the biting stench of vermin and mold corrupting the air. He barely noticed the elevator’s lights glowing like two red eyes in the dark or the little rat feet slid-scuffing over the roof.

The hushed whispers – the _wind_ , he reminded himself, it was only the fucking wind – scraping against the walls, begging – no, _demanding_ – to be let inside. They were surrounded. Cornered like cattle, waiting for slaughter.

Martín drew in a shaky breath. No. He had to remain calm. Panicking wouldn’t do him any good. _Andrés_ wasn't panicking. At least Martín didn't think he was. It was too dark to say for sure; no matter how much Martín strained his eyes, he couldn’t make out Andrés' face. 

Foolishly, he thought that he could feel Andrés' stare. Which was impossible. Because if he couldn’t see Andrés, Andrés wouldn't be able to see him either. That was simple physics. 

And yet…

Martín couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. That someone – no, that _Andrés_ ; there wasn't anyone else – was staring at him with intent. 

It unnerved him. 

Martín crossed his arms in front of his chest, for warmth. For protection. 

He wished he could see Andrés. Did he look calm, Martín wondered, maybe even amused? _A fantastic adventure, isn’t it, Martín? This is how Fortunato must have felt when he was entombed alive. When the darkness engulfed him, when it gobbled him up like a greedy, wild thing. Do you think he knew what was awaiting him in the cellars? That he’d have to serve his penance? Why then did he venture down there in the first place?_

“Why, Martín?”

Martín's head snapped around. Andrés' voice was carefully devoid of emotion, not betraying anything. 

“What?”

“Why do you follow me so blindly, so recklessly? You did so in the woods and nearly broke your leg. You did it just now, even though you could have hurt yourself. Even though we both know that you are scared of the dark.”

Martín tensed.

“I'm not a fucking child. What, you think I'm shitting my pants because I don’t have a nightlight?”

Andrés' laughter echoed off the walls. It sounded off. It sounded _cruel_.

“You should know better than to lie to me,” he said with a click of his tongue. Martín's stomach clenched at the disappointment lacing his words. 

The mood shifted, _soured_. Martín could taste it on his lips – bitter and acidic, like bile. 

“I know you can feel it. The walls are closing in on us, don’t you see? They are swallowing us whole, _devouring_ us,” Andrés said.

Suddenly it felt as though even the last bit of air had been sucked out of the room. Martín was choking, suffocating. He was _dying_.

“How much longer do you think we have, hmm?” Andrés demanded. “How long will it take for our lungs to dry out, to _burn_ with carbon dioxide? Two hours, maybe three?

“It won’t be long until they find our bodies,” he went on. “I am talking, of course, about the insects. Can you feel their hungry stares? They are lying in wait, biding their time until you are too weak to spurn their affections. The flies will kiss your pale skin, and the woodlice will scurry over your death-parted lips, nesting in your wild and matted hair. The worms will burst forth from your heart and tear at your mottled flesh, and the rats will make a feast of your—”

“ _Please_.”

Martín didn’t recognize his own voice, didn’t realize that he had spoken. All he knew was that he was choking. There was no air left inside the room. Nothing. Each time he opened his mouth to push a breath down his throat, it clawed itself back up again, scratching at his windpipe like a living, squirming thing. 

He needed to _get out_. He needed- needed to reach up and dig his fingers into the metal until his nails were bleeding, until his palms were stained a rusty-red, until the doors gave way and air streamed into the room, into his mouth, into his lungs, until there were tiny handprints all over his mother’s dresses – her favorite – she'd make him pay for that, for being a little freak, worthless and pathetic and _go on, fetch the belt, you know you deserve it_ –

“Come here.”

Martín scrambled forward, lunging himself into Andrés’ arms. He felt his hand on his head, guiding him beneath Andrés' chin, until they fit together like two pieces of a puzzle.

Andrés began to card his fingers through his hair, stroking him, _petting_ him. It felt oddly like an apology. 

Martín's fluttered shut. But oh, it was all too easy to lose himself in the warmth of Andrés' embrace, the comfort of his scent. He could almost imagine being somewhere else, somewhere clean and warm and _safe_. 

“Do you know why I didn’t ask you?”

Martín considered playing dumb or feigning sleep – anything to avoid having this conversation.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat, and forced a smile. Not that it mattered. It was pitch-black and his face was pressed into the crook of Andrés' neck. 

“It’s okay, I get it,” he said. “There’s a difference between debunking ghost stories together and sharing a fridge.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, feeling strangely small all of a sudden. Self-conscious.

“I know that I’m not... that I’m...”

“I didn’t ask you,” Andrés said, "because of religion."

_What the fuck_ , Martín thought.

“What the fuck?” He said, and nearly knocked his head into Andrés' chin when he moved back to search his face. Andrés' eyes looked black, like two marbles glinting in the dark. 

“Are you fucking serious?” Martín stumbled over the words in his rush to get them out. “Are you seriously telling me that you can’t live with another man because the church doesn’t like it? You have got to be fucking kidding me–”

He sucked in a sharp breath when he felt Andrés’ hand against the back of his neck, not gripping, but reminding him that he could. That Martín would let him. 

Strangely, the touch grounded him. He could feel the anger seeping out of him, dulling into a low simmer. 

It wasn’t fair. But then again: what fucking was? Nothing in Martín's life had ever come easy. Why would Andrés be any different? Martín should be glad to have him in his life, to be allowed close to him. He shouldn't be greedy. 

“I understand. Well, no. I don’t, actually. But it’s fine,” Martín mumbled. “I didn’t think you cared about...that. You seemed fine with making out in the woods the other day–”

“That's exactly it,” Andrés said. “Don't you see?”

No, he fucking didn’t see. For once, Martín found himself getting frustrated with Andrés' pretentiousness, with his inability to express himself like a normal fucking person. Why couldn’t he just come right out and say it, like everyone else: You’re not good enough, Martín. Simple as that.

“Do you know where the word religion has its origins?”

_Up your ass_ , Martín wanted to say. He stopped himself, just barely.

“ _Religio_ – an obligation. From the Latin _religare_ – to bind. Sailors used to tie themselves to the mast during a storm, to keep themselves from being flung overboard. To keep themselves safe.”

Andrés paused, searching for the right words. His tone, when he found them, was wistful.

“But it could be just as deadly, this bond. If the ship sunk, the sailors would perish. They would _drown_.”

The hand in his hair had stilled its caress. There was no comfort, no affection. 

"I don't want you to bind yourself to me, Martín,” Andrés said. “I don't want you to drown."

In that moment Martín was glad for the cover of darkness. Glad that Andrés couldn't see how his eyes were pricking with tears, how his chin wobbled with barely-contained whines. All because Andrés no longer wanted him.

Because he was leaving Martín, severing their bond – cutting at it with a dull knife. 

The pain was unimaginable.

“Don’t,” Martín croaked. "You can’t send me away. Not when you were the one who picked me. You _chose_ me. You said—”

_Maybe it was fate. Maybe you are half of my soul, as the poets say._

_I liked the shape of your face, the hue of your eyes, the chip in your teeth._

_I liked you, Martín._

Andrés was quiet. Martín wished that he would say something, _anything_.

The hand in his hair resumed its movement, brushing behind his ears and along his temples almost absentmindedly. Martín wanted to press closer, to borrow into Andrés until they were one. Until Andrés could no longer rid himself of Martín without hurting himself. 

“Oh Martín," Andrés sighed. “What am I going to do with you?”

_Anything you want, just please_. _Please keep me_ – the words were poised on the tip of his tongue, eager to tumble out into the open.

Martín had barely pushed the first syllable past his lips when an ear-shattering noise made him jump. It sounded like a ribcage being wrenched open, its bones snapping one by one. 

A strip of light writhed through the cracked doors. It nearly blinded Martín. 

“You okay, boys?” Tatiana pushed her head through the elevator’s doors. The light framing her from behind made her hair shine like a halo. Martín had never been so happy to see her.

“We’re fine,” Andrés said. 

He got up, as easy and effortlessly as though they had been having a picnic in the park. Not a single hair was out of place, and his blazer didn’t even look wrinkled.

Meanwhile, Martín was sure that his jeans and leather jacket were covered in grime and rat shit. He must look like something that had climbed out of the sewers. 

“I was afraid I’d find you two clawing each other’s eyes out.”

“That would be a bad omen,” Andrés said, holding out his hand to help Martín up. "Since we're going to be sharing an apartment."

Tatiana squealed, loud and giddy, but it took Martín a moment longer to make sense of the words. To realize that Andrés had just claimed him as his roommate.

He whirled around to study Andrés’ face, to see if he was joking, but there were no signs of mockery. He was serious then. They would be- they were going to be- 

He wanted to say something – it felt like he should say something – but Andrés turned away and reached for the piece of rope dangling in front of them. The moment had passed. 

They carefully climbed out of the elevator's belly, Andrés with the grace of a dancer, Martín like a newborn fawn that had just learnt to stretch its hindlegs. The elevator kept trembling beneath their feet, as if it was sad to see them go. 

Once they had made it safely outside, Martín took a deep breath. How wonderful it was to feel his lungs expand, to fill them with as much air as he could – albeit stuffy asylum air.

He stood idly by as Tatiana rolled up the piece of rope and stuffed it back into the emergency kit (a duffel bag filled with random tools, a compass, and – perhaps most alarmingly – a shitload of gauze and band-aids). 

She walked off in the direction of the main entrance, her pace brisk. It seemed that Martín wasn’t the only one who was eager to get out of there. 

He made to follow her, but stopped when he felt a hand on his arm. Slowly, he turned around and found Andrés looking down at him, his gaze dark and intent. Searching. 

“You are sure?”

Martín opened his mouth, but Andrés shook his head.

“No, take a moment to think it through,” he said. “I need you to be sure.”

It seemed like a trick question. The answer was obvious, wasn’t it?

Maybe Andrés'd had a point with his little speech about religion, after all. Martín didn’t believe in a God or the grace of saints. He didn’t believe in fate or kismet, in destiny or a great design. Hell, he didn’t even believe in himself.

But he believed in Andrés. 

“I’m with you, ‘til the end of the line,” he said, letting his lips stretch into a playful smile as he added: “That’s from _Captain America_.”

Andrés threw his head back, laughing. Martín’s eyes lingered on the elegant curve of his throat, for once without a scarf.

“I'll have to make room on my bookshelves for you,” Andrés teased, and Martín tried hard to ignore the way his heart skipped at hearing those words. They would be sharing a bookshelf. They would be sharing an apartment. 

Martín would be with Andrés, not just during their stupid ghost hunts, but all the time.

He had never been given a greater gift.

As they made their way back to the car, their shoulders kept bumping together, and for the first time Martín felt good after a ghost hunt. Like the future was something to look forward to.

**Author's Note:**

> > **Cthulhu504** one month ago
>> 
>> I would pay good money if Andrés ever decided to upload an asmr to their patreon
>>
>>> **UsernameNotTaken** two weeks ago
>>> 
>>> If you increase the audio at 18:57-59 you can hear a voice saying ‘get out'
>>>
>>>> **FanAsstic72** four days ago
>>>> 
>>>> Can you do the Suarez Bed & Breakfast in Madrid next? _Denver’s Demons_ got some chilling footage there, but I'd love to see ur take. You guys rock!


End file.
